


Only For You

by sophiaracic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, M/M, Remus Lupin POV, Scotland, University Student Remus Lupin, University Student Sirius Black
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 17:14:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19381180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiaracic/pseuds/sophiaracic
Summary: people probably wouldn’t say you’d lose the ability to think, to speak, to dream normally when you saw someone who, for whatever reason, manages to get your heart worked up even though you have never crossed a word with them, even though you probably never will because you are too much of a coward to go for it





	1. Chapter 1

Finals had always meant the same routine for the next however many months to come. Being a fourth year meant exams were intertwined with dissertation writing, which in turn meant that this last go at studying would be longer than usual. And while other people could get away with not working so hard at this stage, Remus felt the weight of responsibility over his shoulders as if the world’s potential end depended solely on how well he fared this last semester. So, every morning at 6am the dance begun: first, the maddening sound of the alarm woke him, confused as ever, and snatched him from a probably questionable dream. Then shower. Get dressed. Walk to the library. Get a coffee in Nero before arriving to the Main Library, generally by 7am. 

Mornings were his favourite thing in Edinburgh because by 7am tourists hadn’t yet begun to flood the main streets in Old Town and he wouldn’t have to suppress the annoyance he felt whenever a group of probably Spanish or Chinese people decided that Bobby the Dog Statue or The Elephant House’s doorstep were just the places to stand, take pictures and chat, until the end of the day when his studying was done.  
Mornings were quiet, and in the early stages of Scottish spring he could get away with wearing less layers of wool, he could enjoy the walk without having to endure the wind, or the rain, or both. This particular May morning was somewhat cloudy, but dry. The streets were only just coming alive and he could submerge himself in Marc Bolan in the kind of way that only those who are still half asleep, but sort of functioning can. He realised with embarrassing glee that he had enough stamps to grant him a free Cappuccino, which the barista was definitely not as happy about. The warmth of the cup in his hand and the smell of coffee certainly helped at waking him up and he was almost fully functioning when he reached his usual seat on the first floor by the windows. 

Time passed by slowly and quietly. The first floor started filling up with weary-eyed students who seemed to walk in too drained of energy already, even though the day had just begun. Is it supposed to be like this? But it is, exams had shown no mercy before and that didn't seem like it was about to change. He managed to move on from where he left it yesterday, and slowly went through endless pages of notes, almost fearful of bleeding out whatever he had already learnt during the last couple of days. His coffee wasn’t finished but it was cold and too bitter to drink. He mourned hist last piece of chocolate, which he had eaten about an hour ago, and regretted not having saved a bit for later, for that precise moment. While he debated whether going to the cafeteria was worth it, something distracted him. Something being, a regular reason of distraction in the world of Remus Lupin. It — he — usually came in every other day, right around 10 or 10:30. Broad shoulders, aristocrat cheekbones and pitch-black curls. Remus doesn't know what to call it exactly, this unattainable thing that almost becomes some sort of wishful thinking, when tiredness hits him and he is about to lose himself, give in to madness. 

It kind of started in November. The thing, the wishful thinking, the uncalled-for adoration in his gut that makes him testy and shy at the same time. He admonishes himself for even thinking about it, but he can’t exactly help it. For how independent he is, for how reluctant he has been to receiving and giving affection during his years at university, during his whole life, his ability to form sensible thought goes out the window whenever he spots him. Remus doesn’t know his name, and he knows he will never ask. No, he will keep avoiding eye contact whenever he lifts his head and finds grey eyes already watching him, and he will keep kicking himself for it in the evening right before falling sleep. The long-haired man doesn’t exactly stare at him, Remus doesn’t think he does, but they both seem to get frustrated at their books often enough that their eyes find each other’s in the room in glorious moments of light that end as suddenly as they started. Remus tells himself he hates thinking about it, because some weird feeling in his stomach – or his heart – keeps telling him that there is some sort of connection between him and this man. He keeps trying to tell his stomach that it's probably only boredom, or hormones, or both. However, he knows he has never seen a face that did such funny things to his insides before, which is why he can’t let it go even though he tries to, he does. 

The first time it happened, it had been a weird November day, right before the first round of finals of this last year, when he had managed to get rid of his group mates and was finally able to seek refuge in the library. Remus had been immersed in his designs and hadn’t noticed when the guy walked in, but some time later he looked up and saw the Single Most Beautiful face on this earth – surely. He got so worked up he debated whether to leave the library, but he regained control of his … heart? dick? just in time to be able to tell himself off for having such thoughts and to keep working. But he had never reacted so strongly to anyone’s face before and he tried telling himself it wouldn’t happen again, but it kept happening. Every other day, the Bolan lookalike would come in and unknowingly steal a couple minutes off Remus’ time where he could feel his heart going for a dance and then restarting. Today, however, he didn’t have time for this, so he barely granted him a glance before diving back into his notes, which is why he almost fell off his chair when after a while he looked up and saw the guy sitting right in front of him. “Well there goes my productivity”. He tried to lower himself in his chair and hide his face, annoyed at the intrusion. He thought something along the lines of “how dare he disturb my studying by sitting this close”. 

Crushes are interesting things. People probably wouldn’t say you’d lose the ability to think, to speak, to dream normally when you saw someone who, for whatever reason, manages to get your heart worked up even though you have never crossed a word with them, even though you probably never will because you are too much of a coward to go for it, and they probably don’t feel the warmth you feel when you see them walking in, nor the dread you feel when you see them walk away, because who knows when will be the last time that you get to accidentally lock eyes with them.  
Crushes are skating the line between innocent and, quite frankly, fucking embarrassing because again, you have never spoken to this person, so how can they make you breathless just by walking past you, existing by you, looking at your general direction. 

When after a while Remus looked up, the man was looking right at him. Not at his eyes though. At that, Remus felt cold dread washing over him. He had gotten so used to people either ignoring or clumsily trying to avoid it that he had almost forgot how sick he felt when someone stared right at the mess that was his face. He didn’t think he dealt badly with it. It was what it was. The silver lines were a part of him as much as his dusty hair and his freckles and it didn’t bother him, not usually, but it was bothering him now. How could he be sat across the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his entire goddamned life and not be bothered by it. 

By the time he'd realised how much of an idiot he was for ever letting himself think of this person from the darkness of his room, he had already packed his things and left the first floor, the library. He could feel his blood boiling in rage at the stranger for his blatant study of the scars on his face. He could also feel his heart breaking because he didn’t think he had ever wanted to know anyone this badly and ... By the time he got his shit back together he was already in the architecture building, going up the stairs. He liked to think he didn’t generally feel angry, or miserable, or both, but shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. He didn’t think it had been necessarily obvious why he was leaving, but he was starting to feel like a drama queen for it and – he shook his head and laughed at himself bitterly. It’s fine, it’s done, let’s get today over with, tomorrow will be a new day etcetera, etcetera.


	2. Chapter 2

The embarrassment that resulted from his non-interaction with library guy , as well as the weirdly vivid memory of his very sudden exit - which may or may not have made him look like a madman - didn’t let go of him for a couple days. Remus wasn’t a loud person, and he didn’t know how to share, he didn’t know how to be something other than slightly socially awkward, too sarcastic for his own good, a jumble of small smiles and dry laughs, a disorganised mess. He groaned inwardly more than once throughout the following days and he tried to fight the furious blush threatening to take over his face when he saw – felt – The Guy walking past him in the library two days later. 

Thankfully, by the end of the week he thought he could get over it because nothing seemed to have changed in their dynamic of what felt like stolen glances that were probably just accidental encounters of the eyes.  
It was Wednesday and Remus had written his first exam that morning. He didn’t actually have another exam until next week and he had kind of started writing the final section of his dissertation, so by six in the afternoon he felt accomplished enough that leaving the library early didn’t seem too outrageous. When he got up, he felt slightly unbalanced, as if he had been sat down for too long in the same position, as if he hadn’t slept properly in a thousand days. The library generally started to empty around that time and the hall was all amiable chatter and laughter, as well as a whole load of “I’m fucked” and “I’m dead” and “if topic 5 or 6 come in the exam I might as well not have studied at all”. Remus swiped his library card to leave the library and started on his way back home, thankfully not having ran into anyone from his course which would have meant stopping and actually forming sentences and he was just too tired for that, and his backpack was too heavy for that too. He made the walk home quickly, looking at his shoes while trying to avoid running into tourists as much as possible, dreaming of dinner. Sleep came quickly, in the safety of his bedroom, pasta bowl finished in his desk, and Netflix still running – until he woke up at around 1 am to take a piss, and remembered to turn the laptop off. 

\- 

Remus woke up with a start. He was pretty sure he had been having a nightmare, he was drenched in sweat, and he could still feel lingering fear in his hands, in his heart. He got up and went to shower - it was already 5:55, which meant his alarm would have gone off in 5 minutes. While he was standing under the water, he realised he had been dreaming of Wales, so he tried rubbing it off him, as if the soap would make him forget again. 

By the time he got to the library he already felt exhausted. Nightmares had that effect on him, he woke up feeling more tired than when he fell asleep. One coffee didn’t seem like it would be enough that day. He was wondering whether he should have gotten two or added an extra shot to his cappuccino when he saw something that suddenly had him as awake as if he had been sleeping properly his whole life. Marc Bolan lookalike was sat right in front of his usual seat, which to anyone other than Remus would have seem uneventful. However, Remus was always one of the first to get to the library and not once had he experienced the existential crisis of “where do I sit now”; “do I sit in my own seat”; “but is it weird if out of all the free seats there are right now I choose to sit in the one right across him”; “but wouldn’t it be weirder if I changed seats – wait, does he even know…”. He suddenly decided he was too tired to overthink it and that he couldn’t give a flying fuck what the other man thought after all, so went on to take his usual place next to the windows. 

The other man didn’t seem to notice him initially, he was wearing headphones and seemed to be quite focused on his work. To a hopeful mind like Remus’, the lack of acknowledgement could also mean the guy was taking great efforts not to look up, that he might want “play it cool” as much as Remus. However doubtful, Remus avoided looking at his face – and by extension his eyes – as much as he could until he actually sat down, which was when the boy lifted his head and looked at him. This time, he looked into his eyes, but it was fast, and he went right back into his work. Remus realised he hadn’t breathed for a while and tried to calm his traitorous pulse while waiting for his laptop to start. He was sure if Bolan 2.0 hadn’t been wearing headphones he would have sooner or later realised that the low thumps in the room originated at Remus’ heart.

He began to work. For a while he struggled to focus but he followed someone’s great advice of “fake it till you make it” and a couple hours went by until he realised, he had managed to do stuff. By lunch time he was actually quite pleased with himself, because of the progress achieved, and because he had only stopped to glance at the man in front of him a grand total of two times. The knowledge that someone had this type of power over him that he was actually counting the number of times he looked at his face made him feel quite ridiculous, quite childish. Does everyone feel crushes in this way, or is it just him that gets flustered and bothered by a man he has never spoken to? Does everyone get worked up whenever the object of their curiosity gets up, presumably to go for a piss or a smoke? Or when they come back? Or is his mind just weaker than most.  
Realising he hadn’t eaten for a while; he got up made his way downstairs to get a snack, and actually smoke a cigarette himself. He had done a fair chunk of work already which meant he’d soon be able to leave and not feel like the world would combust right after. 

\- 

T-Rex is lulling him into a weird peace of mind while rolling a cig when he feels someone too close in his space to be an accident. He looks up. He frowns. He takes his headphones out. 

\- Sorry man, could I have a rollie by any chance? – Marc Bolan says. Remus doesn’t know whether he will be able to actually think or form a sentence, but he manages to turn to his right so he can reach for the tobacco and passes it to the intruder. The guy smiles sheepishly – I don’t know how to.. – Remus raises an eyebrow at him – I generally smoke industrial – he clarifies. Remus nods trying to hide a smirk. Rich bastard. He realises he still hasn’t said anything.  
\- There, have mine – he passes him the newly rolled cigarette and fishes a lighter out of his pocket. He hands it to him and watches him light the cigarette. After a moment, he moves his right hand to the others’ left and the other man mirrors his movement until Remus snatches the tobacco out of his hand. The guy laughs half amused and half embarrassed – I need a new one don’t I – Remus says, at the same time he taps the bag with his fingers. Bolan nods and Remus gets to work, quickly rolling a new cigarette in silence. When he is finished, the guy hands his lighter back, and at that he seems to realise he is standing in front of a stranger smoking his cigarettes but not having introduced himself, because after he blows smoke out of his mouth, he switches the cigarette to his left hand and offers his right.  
\- Sirius – Remus’ eyebrow shots up again. He can’t tell if he’s joking or not, which would indeed be a terrible attempt at humour, so he waits for the explanation he imagines he will have to provide himself when he gives his own name – like the Star?  
\- Yeah, I know I just didn’t know whether you were actually being... – Sirius looks at him, hilarious disappointment evident in his eyes. Remus doesn’t finish the sentence. He laughs but is suddenly hit by the realisation that he is talking to his crush of one year, that said crush is smoking his tobacco and has the single poshest accent he’s heard in a while, or ever.  
\- Remus – and he takes his hand, which was still hanging, waiting between them. He can feel Sirius’ knuckles underneath his thumb, prominent like his cheekbones, his shoulders. He lets his hand go. He looks at Sirius who is looking back at him and feels his face go warm, suddenly aware of his inadequacy, the mess of his hair, his freckles, his face. In the face of someone as regal looking as Sirius all he can do is look down at their feet and then try to contain a laugh, or an embarrassed groan, when he realises, they’re both wearing the same pair of black all-stars, only Remus’ look severely more beaten up than Sirius’. 

He wishes he knew what to say. 

He wishes being in his head wasn’t so difficult. 

He smokes. 

He looks up. 

Sirius is still looking at him as if Remus was a problem to solve, or maybe just as if he had his face marked by glass and claws. Remus decides to push through the embarrassment, ignores the voice in his head telling him that he’s not enough for someone who looks just like he was molded to rule.

**Author's Note:**

> I was bored in the library myself - title is a song by Heartless Bastards I found last week that I just really love now


End file.
